Of Innocence and Experience
by Sanguine1
Summary: A fic about William, the Bloody Awful Poet. What did he do after he was turned? Please R & R.


Title: Of Innocence and Experience   
Author: Sanguine   
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th-Century Fox own most of these characters. The situations presented here come from my own twisted brain. Doug Petrie wrote the brilliant episode "Fool for Love." Thanks to JodithGrace of the Buffy Cross & Stake Spoiler Board for her wonderful fan fiction (which inspired this) and for naming William's sister Amanda.   
Distribution: With permission.   
Rating: PG

_I went to the Garden of Love,_   
_ And saw what I never had seen;_   
_A Chapel was built in the midst,_   
_ Where I used to play on the green._

_And the gates of this Chapel were shut,_   
_ And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;_   
_So I turned to the Garden of Love_   
_ That so many sweet flowers bore._

_And I saw it was filled with graves,_   
_ And tombstones where flowers should be;_   
_And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,_   
_ And binding with briars my joys and desires._

[William Blake, "The Garden of Love," _Songs of Experience_]   
  


William sat in the middle of his bed, drenched in cold sweat. A thousand horses galloped in his chest and a shiver darted through his body. The dream.

Unbidden the images flooded his mind. A small boy cowering in the corner. Three larger boys coming towards him, leering. "Hold him down." No matter how much William wanted to deny them, they always came back. Again, again, and again.

William didn't like to think of such things. He sequestered them in a distant corner of his mind. William wanted to create beauty, not dwell on ugliness.

Still shaking, he lit a candle and moved to his desk. He knew he would not sleep again that night. As he drew forth his pen, the horses in his chest ceased their galloping, and he could breathe. Heat suffused him and his shivering quieted as he thought of her, his beloved, his Cecily.

The scrape of his pen against the blank paper comforted him. "Ode to Cecily." How to describe his beloved? Looking at the bookshelves that surrounded him he saw the works of far better poets than he: Shakespeare, Tennyson, Yeats, Wordsworth, and those rough Americans Poe and Whitman. But his favorite was Blake. Something in Blake spoke to him. Perhaps some day he would write something that spoke to her. To his Cecily. "Cecily, Cecily, burning bright / you illuminate my heart tonight . . ."

A soft knock interrupted his reverie. "William?" a voice called outside his door. "William, what are you doing?"

"Nothing Amanda. Go back to sleep."

"Are you writing again?"

He sighed. Fifteen and so full of questions. "Yes."

"Can I come in?"

"Oh very well. I can tell, little one, that you will not leave me in peace until your curiosity is fully sated."

He turned the knob on his door and gazed affectionately at his sister, ushering her into his room.

"You know that mummy doesn't like you writing. It's not proper."

William smiled. He knew his mother didn't approve of his poetry. She thought all poets were wastrels. Not the proper vocation for a gentleman. Duty. Taking his place at the head of the family business. A proper marriage to that horse-faced girl Mary Clarke.

"Never you mind, Amanda. This can be our secret. Can you keep secrets?"

Amanda looked at him dotingly with her bright blue eyes. "Of course."

"Why can't you sleep little one?"

Unexpectedly Amanda's eyes filled with tears. "I had the dream again. You were dead and I was all alone and I saw you in the coffin and . . ." She began to sob as the memory of the dream overwhelmed her.

"Shhh." William stroked her long brown hair. "I won't leave you."

"I just couldn't bear it. I never really knew Father, and to lose you too . . ."

"It won't happen, love. It was only a nasty, horrible dream."

Amanda saw the first lines of his poem. "Is that why you're writing? Did you have a bad dream too?"

A few beads of sweat broke out on William's forehead. "Perhaps. But Amanda, you always manage to cheer my spirits."

* * * * * * * * * *

William sipped his tea and took a small bite of his biscuit. He wasn't particularly hungry this morning. He shook his head, refusing the servant's offer of breakfast.

"William, dear, you must eat something. At least have the eggs. Perhaps a few rashers?" His mother motioned to the servant to bring the plate back.

"Mother, I really can't bear to eat anything this morning."

"Very well, dear." She regarded him suspiciously. "Were you up all night again, writing those poems?"

William blushed. "Mother . . ."

She regarded her son affectionately. "William, I know you like to escape into that little world of yours, but you know, my dear, that you have responsibilities and obligations."

He nodded. "Of course."

"I wish things could be different for you, but there you are." She took a sip of her tea. "Will Mary be there this evening?"

William's heart sank. "I don't think so mother."

"Will Cecily be there, William?" Her eyes filled with sympathy.

William shifted in his chair and adjusted the glasses on his nose. "Perhaps . . . I mean . . . I believe that she has accepted the invitation."

His mother took his slender hand in hers. "Son, you know Cecily's family. I simply cannot allow you to marry her."

William withdrew his hand and suppressed the anger that rose within him. "Yes mother. I do understand our position."

"I know it's difficult dear, but Mary is a far better match. Cecily's family has nothing, you understand."

"Nothing but Cecily," he whispered, pushing the eggs and rashers from him untouched.

* * * * * * * * * * William straightened his tie in the mirror by the door. As his servant Rupert placed the coat on his shoulders, he glanced into the mirror one last time and thought of Cecily. He felt for his pen and notebook in his coat pocket. He hated these parties but he knew he had to attend. Tonight he would tell her. He would give her his poem. Then she would know everything. She would finally see who he was.

* * * * * * * * * * No one really noticed William as he entered the room. No one really ever noticed William at all. Nervously, he looked around the parlor. A butler offered him a drink, but he refused. Where was she?

Then he saw her. She was absolutely radiant, her dark hair cascading perfection, wispy ringlets framing her face. She laughed. Her laugh was beautiful too. He smiled to himself as he took a seat in the corner of the room, already thinking of the poem he would compose. Then she would know. His heartbeat quickened. Opening his notebook, he began to write. Luminous, no. Irradiant? A butler passed with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Perhaps he could be of assistance? "Quickly, I'm the very spirit of vexation . . ." The   
butler smiled politely but did not answer his query. Illuminate didn't work. He glanced up and Cecily filled his eyes. Yes. That's absolutely perfect. Perfection. His pen scraped the paper furiously. Almost finished . . .

Shaking slightly, William walked towards the circle of guests. No one paid attention. William tentatively tried to join their circle, missing the looks of disdain that greeted his arrival. The eyes of a tall sandy-haired man met his, challengingly. "Ah, William. Favour us with your opinion. What do you make of this rash of disappearances sweeping our town? Animals or thieves?"

William looked at Cecily, only half hearing the question. The disappearances? Ah, yes. His stomach jumped as he recalled the details. Mangled bodies. Unspeakable violence. Uncomfortably he shifted his weight, feeling all eyes upon him. Cecily's eyes. "I prefer not to think of such dark ugly business at all. That's what the police are for. I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty." Hopefully, he clutched the poem in his hand, shyly meeting her eyes for the first time.

The poem was snatched from his hands amidst snickers. William felt the panic rise within him. He had wanted to give Cecily the poem himself, privately. Now everything was ruined.

A loud voice boisterously mocked his words. "Effulgent?"

William wanted to flee, but then he saw Cecily's face. She seemed pained. Perhaps she understood . . . He turned his back on his tormenters, following her, only faintly hearing the cruel cackles behind him. He had to tell her. He had to let her see him, really see him. Words were exchanged. Then he told her. He finally told her. "I love you Cecily."

Cecily begged him to stop. He pressed on, knowing that he was throwing everything away. He was disobeying his mother's wishes, he was offering himself to Cecily, this woman without family name or fortune. "I know I'm a bad poet. But I'm a good man. All I ask is that you try to see me . . ."

Cecily's eyes met his. They were very bright and clear. "I do see you. That's the problem. You're nothing to me William. You're beneath me."

Everything dissolved at that moment. Nothing else mattered. It was over. He was lost.

* * * * * * * * * * William barely remembered the events that followed. He remembered feelings. Absolute rejection. Utter loneliness and isolation. Then a strange woman made him a strange offer. She understood. She drank deep. And in that moment he was found.

* * * * * * * * * * William's fangs plunged into the neck of his victim.

"Oooh. My boy is hungry. We shall have a party."

William felt the blood course through him. Unbelievable strength. No more cowering in corners. He dropped the corpse of the young, dark-haired girl to the ground. She looked like Cecily. But he was saving the best for last. Revenge was sweet. Violently, he pressed his still bloody lips to Drusilla's smiling mouth. Teasingly, she licked the remnants of blood away. "My boy is hungry." Her seductive whisper spurred him on, and he roughly thrust her against the building. The night was young.

* * * * * * * * * * William stood outside a moderately well-appointed house on a moderately well-appointed street. Waiting. He had all the time in the world now. He could wait forever. Finally, he saw her. She sat down on a stone bench in her family's small garden. The roses had just begun to die. Absentmindedly she picked up a withering rose petal. Preternaturally quiet, William unlatched the garden gate, excitement mixing with anticipation. But no. He wanted to watch a bit longer. He wanted this to be sweet. He wanted to make her neck his chalice.

Cecily looked at the rose petal in her hand. The edges were brown. Death and decay. Just like her mother's body, wasting away, withering. She began to cry.

William saw the outlines of her small figure, head down, examining the contents of her palm. Enough! She was going to pay. He emerged from the shadows.

Cecily looked up, tears staining her face, her voice broken. "William. What do you want now?"

William opened his mouth, searching for a spiteful reply. No words came. William turned and left the garden.   
  
  



End file.
